Where are you? What am I?
by Misskiramel
Summary: A short one-shot, the nightmares of a monster. Dreams, windows into the subconscious, tell stories about ourselves that ever we may not have heard.


_All human beings are also dream beings. Dreaming ties all mankind together**. **-Jack Kerouac_

He was lost, and it was so cold. The white stuff reached up past his knees, his socks were soaked and his boots were filled with snow. He couldn't feel his toes or his fingers. Everything looked the same, the ground and the sky were an identical flat blinding white as far as he could see, it was difficult to discern between the two. The horizon was invisible.

His short raven hair whipped around his face and he kept having to blow it out of his eyes so he could try and see, even just a little. His tears had frozen painfully to his wet cheeks. The wool mittens over his tiny hands were sticky after whipping his nose so many times.

He had caught glimpses of his reflection on the surface of the perfect untouched snow. His big, terrified and miserable blue eyes stared back at him. He saw his smooth baby skinned, round cream colored face. His cheeks were red, puffy and inflamed. He had a red nose too, and pink ears that stuck out just a bit too far on either side of his head.

"Papa! Papa!" He cried. He stumbled and fell as the powerful icy winds knocked him backwards, it hurt, the ground was hard and cold. Sniffling, he struggled to get back up, fighting against the storm winds with all the strength left in his tiny body. He was scared; he didn't know where he was.

The last he remembered him and Papa had been playing in the backyard. It was a sunny summer afternoon, his laughter mixed with the bird song filling the air. He had been running through the grass barefoot, away from the sound of his father's counting. They were playing hide and seek. He went to duck behind their family's wide generations old oak tree that rose up out of the green carpet, and suddenly he was here.

"Papa!" He wailed. "I don't want to play anymore! Let's stop! I'm here!" Wasn't he going to find him yet? It must have been hours. He wandered through the blizzard, first calling for, then screaming for his father until his throat wouldn't make any more sound. He walked until his legs were stiff as tree limbs and as supportive as cotton. Until he collapsed, getting a face full of snow and ice as he fell onto his stomach. He struggled back up onto his hands and knees, then as shakily and carefully as if he were a tower of cards, rose to his feet. He swiftly lost his balance and was back where he started. This time, as much as he struggled he could not get up.

He whimpered, sluggishly drawing his legs into his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He sobbed into his knees. Suddenly he realized he was very very sleepy, sleepier than he had ever been in his life. He yawned, and his eyes drifted close, as heavy as if they were made of iron.

Maybe if he slept for a while, his father would find him by the time he woke up. He just had to wait a little longer; Papa would come and get him, he would take him home. He would make the pain go away. Darkness began to tug at his consciousness, pulling him away. Yeah… when he woke up again he would be home for sure. The blackness consumed him, and he knew no more.

He woke up, immediately sitting bolt upright. He gasped desperately for breath, clutching at the fabric clinging to his chest with sweat. Where was he? What just happened? His head spun wildly above his broad shoulders. His vision was blurry, and at first all he could see were watery shapes made of varying shades of gray. He blinked until he could see clearly; he was in a cave, with his back to the far wall. Bright white light flitted in through the gaping mouth, outside the wind was howling, moving its snowy cargo quickly. That was right; he was in the arctic running from his fath- creator.

It had been that dream again, a shiver went up his spine, the dream where he was a human child who froze to death in the snow. There was something tickling his face, a huge spider fingered hand shot up to feel his cheek. It was water, streaming in small rivers. Yes, this was reality; the salt stung the red flesh around his stitches.

Tears.

He thought he had gotten too old for those.


End file.
